


Back to normal

by nylux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:04:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylux/pseuds/nylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once in his life Sherlock has done the "right thing". Now he has to face the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to normal

Three months had gone by and things were back to normal, or at least one should think. Thanks to Mycroft I came back from exile after about twenty minutes - and I did not even have to die this time. What followed was an elaborate show that one would rather have attributed to the perfectly staged drama of a major Hollywood production than to a government of the Western World. It was not the official government of course - that would be not-so-perfectly-staged drama. What saved me were semi-official figures like my brother and Lady Smallwood, who in reality ran the country and who deemed I was the necessary evil that could be of use to them at some point or another. I will not accuse Mycroft of brotherly love, not at this point at least. 

It was impossible to miss the output of the well-oiled propaganda machinery that had been set in motion on my behalf. The Moriarty scare kept the whole country entertained. First everyone busied themselves in the crudest theories of how he had come back. Then Holmes-ex-machina was carefully blended into to mixture. Out of the news I learned of my heroic undertakings, how I saved the country once more from the criminal mastermind that was Moriarty. How I had actually done it could not be made out from the self-contradictory accounts that were pouring out of every media outlet in the country. No one seemed to care. Hiding in the vaults of Mycroft's home (yes, some vaults actually do exist) I let this happen and felt like a fraud. 

The truth is of course that there was no case. Moriarty had been dead since our final encounter at Bart's. There was no reason for me and John to hook up again (is that the appropriate wording?) and chase the criminal. There was only one part of this charade that I actually had some influence on: it was upon my wish that John was kept out of the media circus. 

John had other things to do in those days. Two weeks after the Moriarty incident Mary had given birth to a healthy baby girl named Patricia. (Pat is actually a girl's name...) As social convention dictates I paid visit to the family soon after the happy occasion. Being a firsthand witness to the domestic bliss, made possible by my oh-so-selfless self-sacrifice as my brother aptly put it, was awkward, as expected. I was invited to their home, presented the child but spared talk about sleeping schedules and bodily functions. They were both aware of my unease and did their best to accommodate. 

I was given permission to leave early which I accepted gratefully. John saw me out, assuring me once again that nothing had changed between us and that he would still like to go out on cases with me. So that he could get his occasional fix, he said, and smiled. I smiled too, the smile semi-fake. He noticed of course but said nothing. I had no intention of putting a new father in danger. Sometimes even John has to be saved from himself. I did not resent the arrival of the child. Even a blind idiot could see at first glance how much of John was in her. How could I not like her? 

After reappearing from my brother's vaults I settled back into Baker Street, now only inhabited by Mrs. Hudson and myself. As much as I hated the fuss that was made around my person these days, it guaranteed me a stable income and spared me the necessity of finding a new flatmate to share the rent. Not that Mrs. Hudson would have allowed for any of this. She would have happily reduced the already ridiculously low fee down to nothing before having anyone other than John move in with me. She kept me company under the pretence of bringing tea, insisting on dusting or complaining about the pungent smell of one experiment or another. The smell may have been avoidable on some occasions, I should admit, but it had the desired effect. 

So everything stayed as it was, except for the obvious. John's empty chair kept blocking my view to the kitchen. I honestly don't know if he had actually ever moved out of his room. Despite being regularly (and often rightfully) accused of ignoring every private boundary, I have barely ever been inside the upstairs bedroom. I did not contact John about cases, neither did he contact me. I could not tell if this was due to his stressful life as a new parent or if he deliberately avoided me. I certainly deliberately avoided him. 

There were cases of course, most of them boring though. I myself may have been the reason that the more intelligent criminals seemed to avoid London like the plague. So I was forced to immerse myself in the depths human sentiment and the cruelty that came with it. I saved a few marriages, broke up a few more, kept a doctor and a nurse from somewhat too enthusiastically euthanising terminal patients. It was actually Lestrade who made me do the latter. In summary, there was nothing that posed any intellectual challenge or would have required extraordinary measures, like recruiting a consulting Watson, for instance. 

Mycroft took pity in me, expressed his worries that I might drown in a flood of goldfishy problems and pushed a few high-profile diplomatic cases in my direction. I accused him of caring, he accused me of having gone soft and even more stupid. He claimed that he needed to save my occasionally-useful mind from rotting as I immersed myself in the violent domestic disputes of ordinary people. What Mycroft, ever the power fetishist, will never understand is that all his intricate diplomatic crises are just the same, only at a larger scale. No, I am doing him wrong here. Of course he understands, but these are the roles we are comfortable with. Maybe now would be a good time to accuse Mycroft of brotherly love. He would hate it. Tempting.

Being far from occupied with my case-work alone I was in need of other means to keep myself busy. All kinds of drugs crossed my way - a natural side effect of making one's living on criminal shortcomings in the very dark or very illustrious (all the same anyway) corners of London. The temptation was there but John would have been disappointed. He would have accused me of not seeking him out, and himself of neglecting me. I hate to repeat myself. 

So I spent quite some time at Bart's doing forensic research under the ever watchful and worried eyes of Molly Hooper. She sees right through me, and after all she has done for me, she has earned her right to do so. The times where I have ridiculed her for making a fool of herself because of her pointless infatuation are long over, and it is obvious that she knows why. She knows that she will never get what she really wants but still she cannot turn away and move on. How very familiar. Besides the highly indulgent self-dissecting, my visits to Bart's resulted in two scientific articles that earned me a few invitations to speak at conferences. I ignored them of course. 

The dull proceedings of my suddenly so painfully ordinary existence were interrupted by a suicide. A TV personality had hanged himself in the backroom of a studio. I had been brought on the case by his spouse who insisted that his partner was not suicidal. A quick investigation on my side showed that the victim was right-handed (obvious from the way the shoe-laces were tied) while the hangman's knot had been tied by a left-handed person. The culprit was found quickly. It was the classic case of a jealous co-worker who was responsible for a large portion of the TV person's success but never got any credit. Plain as this case had turned out in the end, it made excellent fodder for the tabloids and I found myself once again on newspaper title pages. 

This in turn ended with John Watson sitting in his old chair three months after the Moriarty incident, demanding juicy details that were not to be found in the papers. Mary and Pat were off to Sussex to visit Janine and her boyfriend (a real one this time) at their newly renovated cottage. I was surprised to hear that Mary's and Janine's friendship had survived the events of the Magnussen case. But I, of all, should know that friendly ties can be stronger than reason would permit. 

And so I found myself, once again, in the company of John, a glass of brandy in hand, listening eagerly as I regurgitated the case. I recounted what he already knew from the papers, seasoned with a deduction on the state of Donovan's knees (she seems to like to repeat herself) while Anderson was staring at the victim's shoelaces. John chuckled nicely at that, relaxing into his chair. I did not tell him that I had politely answered all the journalists' questions at the press conference after. I did not tell him, that I had refrained from calling Lestrade an idiot for not seeing that the suicide was a murder in the first place. Why bother the man with the knowledge of what he is doing to me, even when he is not standing by my side to give directions. 

I tried hard to keep myself distant and in control of my alcohol intake that evening. I was not ready for a repetition of the stag night, when we had come dangerously close to ... something. Despite my effort of keeping myself aloof, we easily fell back into our familiar companionship, and I revelled in it. John Watson has the unique ability to make even the most trivial chatter deep and relevant. "You know, I miss this." he said out of nowhere as the conversation had slowed down for a moment, staring straight into my eyes. "What do you mean?" I asked, looking at the floor. Of course I knew what he meant, and what he did not mean. "You know, us spending time together discussing cases. Going on cases with you. All that. It has stopped. It should not have. I still want that." The adrenaline junkie asking for a fix. 

This is what he wanted from me. This is what I was allowed to give. This is what was welcome. I would never be asked for more. "Of course" I said, "however, recently, there wasn't really anything of interest. London has become boring these days." I have always been good at evading questions by telling a different truth. "Ah, well, too bad." he replied. He was grinning. "I know it's a bit pointless to suggest such a thing to you, but there are friends who can enjoy each other's company without the excuse of chasing criminals." 

I appreciated his effort of keeping the conversation light. I put on my you-cannot-possibly-be-serious face and said "John, are really suggesting weekly pub nights, or fish and chips every Friday? Dull." He smiled, somewhat disappointed. And with that the evening was over. It was already past eleven and he made his excuse: work tomorrow. Of course. I walked him to the door. "Good night.'' he said, "And do consider those dull and ordinary excuses for meeting your old friend once in awhile." I tried for a smile and almost succeeded. "Good night, John." I said as he turned and left. 

I closed the door behind him, went back up to the flat and lay down on the couch. No point in dramatic slumping without an audience. I did not know what to make of this night. There had been an offer, an opening on John's side. But did I really want the reality of what I could have with John? The pub nights, the occasional companionship? That would only interfere with the version of my John who I have dedicated vast areas of my mind palace to. The John who is not only in for the thrill and the chase but also welcomes the tenderness and devotion. I wish I could spend my life in this particular corner of my mind. But this cannot be a permanent solution. Sooner or later I have to accept reality for what it is. In particular, because I myself have helped create it. It is pointless to dwell on the things that are not meant to be. It is what it is and it has to be enough.


End file.
